Chapter 2 #3
Toying with the knife, he circled her, eyes gleaming hotly amber. "No. It reminds me of the Prime's work."
"It’s an echo. Since he was my master."
"In all matters," Rathbourne murmured.
The remark stung, though she knew it was commonly believed rumor. After all, how could a healthy young woman such as she not have a lover, when her lack of marriage, career choice, and decision to live alone marked her clearly as someone of lesser morals?
It didn't matter what he thought of her. Only that she found the people who wanted the relic. For a moment, she almost felt ill, the prick of tears threatening.
Rathbourne's slow circling had stopped. "The thought upsets you."
"What?" Ianthe turned her head to the side to look up at him. Perhaps some part of the man who'd once been her lover still existed.
Or perhaps she was looking too hard for an ally that didn't exist.
"We haven't got all day." Ianthe turned her face away. "Make your blasted marks, and let us finish this. The trail is growing colder by the minute."
Rathbourne knelt on the edge of the stone slab. "So be it." Reaching out, he plucked at the buttons of her high-necked dress.
The touch was shockingly intimate, and her fingers caught his, trying to knock them aside. "I can manage."
Rathbourne held up his hands. "Merely trying to hurry the task along."
Swallowing hard, she managed to undo her gown all the way to the top of her breasts.
Rathbourne reached out and flicked the collar open, baring her décolletage.
Those lazy, lion's eyes warmed as he looked his fill.
Cold air pricked her naked skin, reminding her that she wore little more than her chemise and stays beneath her dress.
Breath quickening, she stared up at the ceiling overhead, trying to ignore the heat of his presence.
It had been like this ever since the day he stalked into Drake's ballroom and presumed to seek an introduction with her.
As if he hadn't been the man who'd claimed her virginity, all those years ago.
"Blood to bind," he whispered, and the sharp coppery scent of blood filled the room as he cut his finger again and let his blood well into the small lead bowl she used for that purpose.
"Saliva, for the breath of life." Running his finger inside his mouth, he sucked hard on the cut. "Ink to mark the flesh."
Spitting on the block of ink, he rubbed his bloodied finger through it, and Ianthe felt the first small stirrings of magic tighten inside her. She stifled the urge to squirm restlessly. An inability to focus was the mark of a mere acolyte.
Not even Drake would deny that you've enough to unsettle any mind... Rathbourne himself, the relic and... the debt of guilt and grief.
Tears pricked her eyes. Don't think of that now.
"Hecarrh cairedh mi caratha..." Soft, whispering words so excellently nuanced that they had to be his personal Words of Power.
The candle flames all flickered, then flared higher in a singular wave.
The pull of power became a warm, tugging knot in her abdomen, a gentle pressure between her thighs.
Sorcery had always felt slightly sexual in nature for her.
It wasn't always, depending on the person and the elements of power that attuned more strongly to them.
Some preferred the stir of blood, the anticipation of cutting the magic from their skin.
Some found their link in the grave and the power of death.
From the feel of the pull between them, she knew precisely which aspect Rathbourne attuned to.
The muscle in his thighs clenched as he leaned over her, dipping a finger into the mixture of ink, saliva, and blood.
His erection strained against the cambric of his trousers, and she swiftly glanced away as he straddled her hips.
"That's hardly necessary," she protested.
Soft fingers stroked a loose strand of her hair out of the way.
"Shush." The moment he touched his blood-wetted finger to her chest, Ianthe felt it, as though he'd plucked the strings of a lute.
Sorcery shivered through her; vibrations that set her blood on fire and forced her to bite her lip.
She pressed her knees tightly together. Merciful heavens.
Magic of the most intimate kind glimmered to life with the bond between them, leaving her wet and aching, trapped beneath him, the press of his knees on either side of her hips pinning her skirts.
When the power faded, Rathbourne was straddling her, the press of his body pinning her hips to the stone slab.
Breathing hard, his dark hair tumbling over those shocked eyes, he looked down at her.
One hand splayed over the stone near her head, the other was resting lightly on the rune he'd drawn on her skin, fingertips barely grazing her.
All it would take would be one move.
Hers.
A fist curling in his cravat as she dragged his weight down atop her.
.. A perfectly legitimate way to finish this ritual, but if this were the result of a single rune, then what would happen if she let free all her inhibitions and took this to a conclusion they both desired?
Just how powerful would their spell craft be?
And what would be the result?
There were three types of bonds that two sorcerers could use; a wellspring bond, where one sorcerer gave control of their power over to another; the bond between Anchor and Shield, which was somewhat more reciprocal, though the Anchor typically held control; and a soul-bond, that rare bond that could be created between lovers and could never be broken.
Ianthe wasn't quite romantic enough to believe in it.
At least this Anchor bond could be broken by choice when the time came.
Even if the desolate ache between her thighs left her feeling strangely unsatisfied.
Tonight, that ache would be assuaged. She'd given her word for it.
"Are you done?" she demanded, both frightened and titillated by the idea of being in this man's bed, under his control, his power.
"Of course." Rathbourne traced his fingertips across her collarbone, eliciting a shiver, then stood and began unbuttoning his shirt, golden candle flame highlighting the stark line of sinew in his shoulders and muscle. "Now it's my turn."